


Servants with Torches

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-08
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:43:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Palazzo hide-and-seek and other games princes play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Servants with Torches

There's a line of olive trees running up to the house.  Big  
plumes of foliage pushing upward, perfectly spaced by some  
gardener fifty or a hundred years ago.  Somewhere underneath  
them there's a pair of servants pulling at the tether of some  
animal he can't see.  Then stonework, and the courtyard of the  
house.

He first came here . . . what? ten years ago? . . . with his  
cousin, for reasons he can't remember now.  When Montague's son  
was a rug-rat, still in skirts and chased constantly by his  
nurse through formal rooms where he should never have been  
allowed.  Swirl of white cloth and long, soft dark hair, and  
his father swept velvet sleeves down and trapped him, then  
pulled the boy into his lap and just held him while men talked.    
Hard edges of wine in the room by the time the little one  
dropped off, and by then all the torch-sconces were lit and the  
nurse was long-snoring in some shadowed corner.

He didn't get a real sense of the house on his first visit.  It  
was only another palazzo of dark wood and old stone, similar  
enough to his own that he knew to be cautious of it.  But he  
loved the outside of it.  A perfect perspective line in living  
wood ran up to the house.  The prince his cousin liked it too,  
he thought, though he didn't say.

He came back six years later, for reasons best not mentioned to  
any of his kinsmen.  He suspected that no one would approve of  
the Prince's cousin getting buggered by retainers of a lower  
house.  His confessor had nearly turned inside out at the  
single mention he's made of the incident.  But he hadn't  
regretted it.  Had loved the rough linen against his chest and  
the human smell in it, and the weight of the man on top of him,  
fucking him into the mattress.  Just one of Montague's poorer  
cousins, a man who had no idea who he was.  Who found him in  
the square earlier that night.  Both of them luminous black in  
the light of the servants' torches.

Afterwards, he left the man sleeping and went creeping through  
the house.  Boots under his arm for silence, but he was well-  
enough used to that.  Silken feet on the parquet.  

Montague came suddenly down the hallway with only a torch-  
bearer and a secretary, ranting.  He'd slid back into the  
shadows and groped until he found velvet, then ducked behind  
it.  Pictured what would happen if they caught him.  He'd keep  
his head, and probably his hands, if only because Montague  
couldn't afford a feud with the Prince, not then.  But they  
could send him back naked and beaten, thrown over the pommel of  
some filthy guardsman's horse.  Blood in trickles running down  
his back.  Rather an interesting thought, really.  He didn't  
tempt fate.  He didn't even breathe for long minutes after the  
light was gone.

And then soft fingers in the velvet found him.  Closed around  
his wrist and pulled him out, so gently that he wasn't sure he  
was being held by something human.  Into the moonlight in the  
next alcove.

Wind in his hair.  Suddenly aware of his unbuttoned doublet and  
untucked shirt and stocking feet.

"Who are you, and why are you in my house?"

He couldn't see anything except a thin body in dark Montague  
livery.  Tall, but not very old.  The voice was still a boy-  
soprano.

"I'm the Prince's cousin."

"And . . .?"

"And I was fucking the servants.  Next question."

Quick flash of nearly-invisible humour.  "You don't have  
servants of your own?  How sad for you."

"Oh, fuck you."  Quick recoil, and then the boy stepped into  
the light.  Montague's brat, and he really was a child.  Much  
too young to be sworn at by the Prince's degenerate relatives.    
"Sorry."

"You're forgiven."

He discovered he was shaking.  For the first instants the boy  
had held him, he'd thought a ghost had found him.  Too many  
things in the dark.  Not all of them friendly.  But lovely,  
this little one.  Unbelievably self-possessed in this moment.

"Can I go?"  Moving back down the hall.

"Probably not.  That's not the way out."  Small pause.  "The  
house is locked up for the night.  You can't get out like  
that."  Another pause.  "I'll help you."

"Alright."

And that was Romeo.  Twelve years old, already almost as tall  
as his father, and the unquestioned precious child of the  
household.  Romeo who led him to his own rooms, found him  
Montague livery, and helped him into it.  Black and green,  
edges of silver that denoted a beloved family member.    
Expensive perfume in it.

"Thank you."  He turned, looked at the solemn little being  
perched on a chair.  "I'll get this back to you."

"You don't have to."  Beat.  "But you should come tomorrow and  
introduce yourself to my father.  He wants me to have friends."

He stared at the boy.  And wondered what it must be like to be  
the only child of old parents in a house this dark.  He'd met  
the retainers earlier, but they were all older, and if they'd  
lived with the household any length of time, then Old Montague  
knew their habits well enough to keep them away from his  
cherished darling.

"Your father is not going to believe I just decided to present  
myself."  Sigh.  "Why should I want to?"

"Because you're my friend."

"No I'm not.  I'm a lunatic you found sneaking around in the  
hallway."

"You could be my friend."  Pause.  "Tell me a story."

"What?!"

"Tell me a story."  Patiently.  He'd already kicked his boots  
off and pulled his feet up into the chair in front of him, and  
in that moment he did look like a child.

He decided to scare the shit out of the boy and be on his way.    
"What do you know about witches?"

"People burn them.  There was one burned last year."

"Mmm.  Do you know what they do?"  Negative shake of the dark  
head.  "They make trouble.  They poison wells by breathing on  
them.  That cold breath that comes up from the water?  That's  
a witch.  Every new bucket's a risk.  Not even if the water  
that comes into your catch is so clear that you could see your  
lover's face in it.

"Witches come into the stables at night and steal the horses.    
Ride them out all over the hills and tie knots in their manes  
to hang on by.  You only wake in the morning and your horse in  
its stall is shaking and foaming and al of its mane is knotted  
up.

"They come anywhere.  Into your house, if you don't watch.    
Into your mother's bed.  Mess with her.  Women like that, you  
know?  They breathe on you and then all your thoughts are  
dirty.

"God, filthy."

"Is that what happened to you?"

"What?  I don't know.  No.  Maybe.  God you ask a lot of  
questions."

Shurg.  "One more."

"Sure.  What the hell."

"What's your name?"

Oh.  "Mercutio."

"OK.  

"The guard's going to change in a minute or two.  Come on.    
I'll take you to the gates."  Handed him a cloak and slipped  
out, soft-footed.  And so he'd draped the cloth over himself  
and run after.  Not thinking at all about Romeo's delight in  
dressing him up, or the promise he hadn't really avoided making  
to come back.

***

Comes up through the garden and vaults the wall, careful of his  
sword.  Only realizes as he's walking on the precarious edge of  
the balcony that he'll have to leave the blade behind and  
collect it later.  Someone made him promise he'd go unarmed.

In Romeo's bedroom, there are cloaks and masks everywhere, and  
a pair of jackets crumpled on the bed.  Shimmering colours.    
Montague loves this boy more than Mercutio's ever seen someone  
love their child.  You could buy half a kingdom with the money  
they spend on his clothes.  So he can lie in the rose garden in  
them and moon and get dirty.

There's dirt smudged on one cheek now, just level with his  
mouth, that can see when Romeo turns.  "No one ever taught you  
about doors, did they?"

"I don't believe in doors.  They're bad luck."

Laughter.  Romeo walks over, very carefully, then springs and  
lets the loose cloak fall around Mercutio's shoulders.  "You  
look great.  Mysterious.  Sexy.  Everyone will fall in love  
with you and no one will notice me or the others at all."

He bows.  "I live to serve."

"If you say so."  Mercutio slicks a thumb and wipes the dirt  
off that too-pale face.  Romeo flinches like child.  "Ugh."

"You should never be anything less than perfect."  Silence.    
"You might even want to get the garden dirt out from under your  
nails before we leave."

Romeo sticks his tongue out and stalks off to the washbasin.    
He's fantastically beautiful, and Mercutio's secretly thrilled  
that he's at least temporarily forgotten that he's supposed to  
be pining.  Because Romeo's very good at that -- the paleness,  
the not-eating, the fragmented rhymes he can generate on  
command in praise of the latest love-object.  And sometimes he  
looks like it's really going to be the death of him.

Looks across the room in time to see him sighing into the  
water-bowl.  "Stop that."

"I'm sorry.  I can't help it."  Little sad grin.

He is *not* going to do this.  Not tonight.  Mercutio slides  
over behind him and wraps both arms around Romeo's waist.

"You are *so* beautiful.  No woman should ever touch you."

"Don't."

"You are."

Sigh.  "Thank you."

Kiss on the pale back of his neck.  Soldier-cut short hair, for  
some reason. He can't imagine who talked Romeo into that one.    
The next head of the house of Montague can barely pick up a  
sword; he doesn't need to be shaved for combat.  "Do you love  
me?"

"Always."

"More than Rosaline?"  Kisses him, hard.  Still leaning over  
his shoulder and glad for the advantage of his height.

Break, breathe.  "Rosaline hates me."

"Good."

Twists the younger man around so that they're chest to chest  
and kisses him the way people are supposed to kiss something  
that beautiful.  Hard, but careful not to bruise.  He pushes  
Romeo back onto the bed, watches him fall into the air-filled  
pile of cloaks.  Then kneels on the floor and kisses the  
clothed abdomen, using his lips to feel the small muscles that  
shift under cloth layers, catches it in the jaw when the body  
under his bucks upward suddenly.

"Beautiful."  He finds the clasp on Romeo's belt and loosens  
it, then frees up the doublet and the shirt under it.  Finds  
himself with an expanse of bare chest and belly to explore.    
Warm, spicy body-smell, better than anything he's ever touched  
or tasted.  White, white skin.  Tiny line of hair running up  
his body's centre.  He burrows his face down, bites and licks  
and finds all the tender places on that skin.  Tongues Romeo's  
navel.

"Good?"

"Yesssss . . ."

Somewhere under his chin, he's getting some fairly good  
evidence that it is good, and it's starting to strain the  
limits of black stockings.  It's flesh he's going to get to in  
just a minute, and it's going to be amazing, but he needs to  
tease for some reason first.  So he rubs his open mouth over  
the cloth, soaking it and nuzzling at the shape he can feel  
pushing out.

"Stop it."

And he's pushed back suddenly on his heels, achingly hard and  
nothing touching him.

"What?"  Incredulous.

"You need to stop.  We're not doing this."  Romeo's shirt is  
already down, his doublet done up.  He's standing with his belt  
in his hands.

Mercutio considers suggesting some things he could do with that  
belt.  Doesn't.  He's miserable, suddenly, and cold.  "Why  
not?"

Romeo bends, then kneels, to put them face-to-face.  "Because I  
love you."  And kisses him, utterly gently.  Just the pale  
brush of a tongue across his.  "And we're not going to, so  
stand up."

He stays sitting on the floor, nursing his pride and willing  
his erection to ease before he has to deal with it.  Romeo  
ignores him for the moment and goes back to sorting the  
masquerade costumes.

Mercutio remembers the first night he offered.  He remembers  
Romeo's shocked hands exploring the bruised places of his body,  
and then tracing over the dark circles he was sporting under  
his eyes at the time.  It makes him sick sometimes, because  
he's never seen anyone so innocent, and he can't always resist  
trying to make him dirty.

"I'm sorry."

"You're forgiven.  Now forget it."

"God you're happy suddenly."

"Something's coming."  Romeo turns, and the look on his face is  
the one Mercutio usually sees on his own when he looks in a  
mirror.  Dead-certain, and a little manic.

"Pestilence and passion, I'm sure."

Romeo just grins at him.  So he leaves him and crawls out and  
sits on the terrace balustrade.

Somebody down in the garden turns to look up at him.  Big dark  
eyes and a body he can just remember.  The retainer's eyes turn  
a little wild at the edges.

Mercutio blows him a kiss.  It's going to be dark in less than  
an hour.  And then he can hit the streets, and watch Romeo  
dance, and somewhere in the evening it's going to be very  
interesting.


End file.
